‘Yes, indeed,’ said Miss Twitterton, ‘I’m very worried about Uncle. We haven’t seen him since last Wednesday, and I’m sure—’
‘But,’ pursued Peter, ‘you won’t find him in my house.’
‘Your house?’
‘My house. I have just purchased this house from Mr Noakes.’
‘Whew!’ exclaimed Mr MacBride excitedly, blowing out a long jet of smoke. ‘So that’s the nigger in the woodpile. Bought the house, eh? Paid for it?’
‘Really, really!’ cried the vicar, scandalised. Mr Puffett, struggling into a sweater, remained with arms suspended.
‘Naturally,’ said Peter. ‘I have paid for it.’
‘Skipped, by thunder!’ exclaimed Mr MacBride. His sudden gesture dislodged his bowler from his knee and sent it spinning and skipping to Mr Puffett’s feet. Crutchley dropped the heap of papers he had collected and stood staring.
‘Skipped?’ shrieked Miss Twitterton. ‘What do you mean by that? Oh, what does he mean, Lord Peter?’
‘Oh, hush!’ said Harriet. ‘He doesn’t really know, any more than we do.’
‘Gone away,’ explained Mr MacBride. ‘Vamoosed. Done a bunk. Skipped with the cash. Is that clear enough? If I’ve said it to Mr Abrahams once, I’ve said it a thousand times. If you don’t come down sharp on that fellow Noakes, he’ll skip, I said. And he has skipped, ain’t it?’
‘It looks like it, certainly,’ said Peter.
‘Skipped?’ Crutchley was indignant. ‘It’s easy for you to say skipped. What about my forty pound?’
‘Oh, Frank!’ cried Miss Twitterton.
‘Ah, you’re another of ’em, are you?’ said Mr MacBride, with condescending sympathy. ‘Forty pounds, eh? Well, what about us? What about our client’s money?’
‘But what money?’ gasped Miss Twitterton in an agony of apprehension. ‘Whose money? I don’t understand. What’s it all got to do with Uncle William?’
‘Peter,’ said Harriet, ‘don’t you think –?’
‘It’s no good,’ said Wimsey. ‘It’s got to come out.’
‘See this?’ said Mr MacBride. ‘That’s a writ, that is. Little matter of nine hundred pound.’
‘Nine ’undred?’ Crutchley made a snatch for the paper as though it were negotiable security for that amount.
‘Nine hundred pounds!’ Miss Twitterton’s was the top note in the chorus. Peter shook his head.
‘Capital and interest,’ said Mr MacBride, calmly. ‘Levy, Levy & Levy. Running five years. Can’t wait for ever, you know.’
‘My uncle’s business—’ began Miss Twitterton. ‘Oh, there must be some mistake.’
‘Your uncle’s business, miss,’ said Mr MacBride, bluntly but not altogether unsympathetically, ‘hasn’t got a leg to stand on. Mortgage on the shop and not a hundred pounds’ worth of stock in the place – and I don’t suppose that’s paid for. Your uncle’s broke, that’s what it is. Broke.’
‘Broke?’ exclaimed Crutchley, with passion. ‘And how about my forty quid what he made me put into his business?’
‘Well, you won’t see that again, Mr Whoever-you-are,’ returned the clerk, coolly. ‘Not without we catch the old gentleman and make him cough up the cash. Even then – might I ask, my lord, what you paid for the house? No offence, but it does make a difference.’
‘Six-fifty,’ said Peter.
‘Cheap,’ said Mr MacBride, shortly.
‘So we thought,’ replied his lordship. ‘It was valued at eight hundred for mortgage; but he took our offer for cash.’
‘Looking for a mortgage, was he?’
‘I don’t know. I took pains to make sure that there were, in fact, no encumbrances. Further, I did not inquire.’
‘Ha!’ said Mr MacBride. ‘Well, you got a bargain.’
‘It will need a good bit of money spent on it,’ said Peter. ‘As a matter of fact, we’d have paid what he wanted if he’d insisted; my wife had a fancy for the place. But he accepted our first offer; ours not to question why. Business is business.’
‘Hum!’ said Mr MacBride, with respect. ‘And some people think the aristocracy’s a soft proposition. Then I gather you’re not altogether surprised.’
‘Not in the least,’ said Peter.
Miss Twitterton looked bewildered.
‘Well, it’s all the worse for our client,’ said Mr MacBride, frankly. ‘Six-fifty won’t cover us, even if we get it; and he’s gone and beat it with the money.’
‘Given me the slip, the swindlin’ old devil!’ ejaculated Crutchley, in angry tones.
‘Steady, steady, Crutchley,’ implored the vicar. ‘Remember where you are. Think of Miss Twitterton.’
‘There’s the furniture,’ said Harriet. ‘That belongs to him.’
‘If it’s paid for,’ said Mr MacBride, summing up the contents of the room with a contemptuous eye.
‘But it’s dreadful!’ cried Miss Twitterton. ‘I can’t believe it! We always thought Uncle was so well off.’
‘So he is,’ said Mr MacBride. ‘Well off out of this. About a thousand miles by this time. Not heard of since last Wednesday? Well, there you are. A nice job, I don’t think. Fact is, with all these transport facilities, it’s too easy nowadays for absconding debtors to clear out.’
‘See here!’ cried Crutchley, losing all control of himself. ‘You mean to say, even if you find him, I shan’t get my forty pounds? It’s a damn’ disgrace, that’s what it is—’
‘Hold hard,’ said Mr MacBride. ‘He didn’t take you into partnership or anything, I suppose? No? Well, that’s a bit of luck for you, anyway. We can’t come on you for what’s missing. You thank your stars you’re out of it for your forty pounds. It’s all experience, ain’t it?’
‘Curse you!’ said Crutchley. ‘I’ll ’ave my forty pounds out o’ somebody. Here, you, Aggie Twitterton – you know he promised to pay me. I’ll ’ave the law on you! Crooked, swindlin’—’
‘Come, come,’ interposed Mr Goodacre again. ‘It’s not Miss Twitterton’s fault. You must not fly into a passion. We must all try to think calmly—’
‘Quite,’ said Peter. ‘Definitely. Let us beget a temperance that may give it smoothness. And talking of temperance, how about a mild spot? Bunter! – Oh, there you are. Have we any drink in the house?’
‘Certainly, my lord. Hock, sherry, whisky—’
Here Mr Puffett thought well to intervene. Wines and spirits were scarcely in his line.
‘Mr Noakes,’ he observed, in a detached manner, ‘always kep’ a good barrel of beer in the ’ouse. I will say that for him.’
‘Excellent. Strictly speaking. I suppose, Mr MacBride, it’s your client’s beer. But if you have no objection—’
‘Well,’ conceded Mr MacBride, ‘a drop of beer’s neither here nor there, is it now?’
‘A jug of beer, then, Bunter, and the whisky. Oh, and sherry for the ladies.’
Bunter departed on this mollifying errand, and the atmosphere seemed to grow calmer. Mr Goodacre seized on the last words to introduce a less controversial topic:
‘Sherry,’ he said, pleasantly, ‘has always appeared to me a most agreeable wine. I was so glad to read in the newspaper that it was coming into its own again. Madeira, too. They tell me that both sherry and madeira are returning to favour in London. And in the Universities. That is a very reassuring sign. I cannot think that these modern cocktails can be either healthful or palatable. Surely not. But I can see no objection to a glass of sound wine now and again – for the stomach’s sake, as the Apostle says. It is undoubtedly restorative in moments of agitation, like the present. I am afraid, Miss Twitterton, this has been a sad shock to you.’
‘I couldn’t have thought it of Uncle,’ said Miss Twitterton, sadly. ‘He has always been so much looked-up to. I simply can’t believe it.’
‘I can – easily,’ said Crutchley, in the sweep’s ear.
‘You never know,’ said Mr Puffett, struggling into his top-coat. ‘I always thought Mr Noakes was
a warm man. Seems like he was ’ot stuff.’
‘Gone off with my forty quid!’ Automatically, Crutchley picked up the papers from the floor. ‘And never paid me only 2 per cent, neither, the old thief! I never did like that wireless business.’
‘Ah!’ said Mr Puffett. He caught at a loose end of string dangling from among the papers and reeled it out on his fingers, so that they looked absurdly like a stout maiden lady and her companion engaged in winding knitting wool. ‘Safe bind, safe find, Frank Crutchley. You can’t be too careful where you puts your money. Pick it up where you finds it and put it away careful, same as I does this bit of twine, and there it is, ’andy when you wants it.’ He stowed the string away in a remote pocket.
To this piece of sententiousness, Crutchley returned no answer. He went out, giving place to Bunter, who, with an inscrutable face, was balancing upon a tin tray a black bottle, a bottle of whisky, an earthenware jug, the two tumblers of the night before, three cut-glass goblets (one with a chipped foot), a china mug with a handle and two pewter pots of different sizes.
‘Good lord!’ said Peter. (Bunter’s eyes lifted for a moment like those of a scolded spaniel.) ‘These must be the Baker Street Irregulars; the chief thing is that they all have a hole in the top. I am told that Mr Woolworth sells a very good selection of glassware. In the meantime, Miss Twitterton, will you take sherry as a present from Margate or toss off your Haig in a tankard?’
‘Oh!’ said Miss Twitterton. ‘I’m sure there are some in the chiffonier – Oh, thank you so much, but at this time in the morning – and then they would need dusting, because Uncle didn’t use them – Well, I really don’t know—’
‘It’ll do you good.’
‘I think you need a little something,’ said Harriet.
‘Oh, do you, Lady Peter? Well – if you insist – Only sherry, then, and only a little of that – Of course, it isn’t really so early any longer, is it? – Oh, please, really, I’m sure you’re giving me far too much!’
‘I assure you,’ said Peter, ‘you will find it as mild as your own parsnip wine.’ He handed her the mug gravely, and poured a small quantity of sherry into a tumbler for his wife, who accepted it with the remark:
‘You are a master of meiosis.’
‘Thank you, Harriet. What’s your poison, padre?’
‘Sherry, thank you, sherry. Your health, my dear young people.’ He clinked the tumbler solemnly against Miss Twitterton’s mug, taking her by surprise. ‘Take courage, Miss Twitterton. Things mayn’t be as bad as they seem.’
‘Thank you,’ said Mr MacBride, waving away the whisky. ‘I’ll wait for the beer if it’s all the same to you. No spirits in office hours is my motto. I’m sure it’s no pleasure to me, bringing all this unfortunate disturbance into a family. But business is business, ain’t it, your lordship? And we’ve got our clients to consider.’
‘You’re not to blame,’ said Peter. ‘Miss Twitterton realises that you are only doing your rather unpleasant duty. They also serve who only serve writs, you know.’
‘I’m sure,’ cried Miss Twitterton, ‘if we could only find Uncle, he would explain everything.’
‘If we could find him,’ agreed Mr MacBride, meaningly.
‘Yes,’ said Peter, ‘much virtue in if. If we could find Mr Noakes—’ The door opened, and he dismissed the question with an air of relief. ‘Ah! Beer, glorious beer!’
‘Excuse me, my lord.’ Bunter stood on the threshold empty-handed. ‘I’m afraid we have found Mr Noakes.’
‘Afraid you’ve found him?’ Master and man stared at one another, and Harriet, reading the unspoken message in their eyes, came up to Peter and laid a hand on his arm.
‘For God’s sake, Bunter,’ said Wimsey, with a strained note in his voice, ‘don’t say you’ve found – Where? Down the cellar?’
The voice of Mrs Ruddle broke the tension like the wail of a banshee:
‘Frank! Frank Crutchley! It’s Mr Noakes!’
‘Yes, my lord,’ said Bunter.
Miss Twitterton, unexpectedly quick-witted, sprang to her feet. ‘He’s dead! Uncle’s dead!’ The mug rolled from her hands to crash on the hearth-stone.
‘No, no,’ said Harriet, ‘they can’t mean that.’
‘Oh, no, impossible,’ said Mr Goodacre. He looked appealingly at Bunter, who bent his head.
‘I am very much afraid so, sir.’
Crutchley, thrusting him aside, burst in. ‘What’s happened? What’s Ma Ruddle shouting about? Where’s –?’
‘I knew it, I knew it!’ shrieked Miss Twitterton, recklessly. ‘I knew something terrible had happened! Uncle’s dead and all the money’s gone!’
She burst into a fit of hiccupping laughter, made a dart towards Crutchley, who recoiled with a gasp, broke from the vicar’s supporting hand and flung herself hysterically into Harriet’s arms.
‘Here!’ said Mr Puffett, ‘let’s ’ave a look.’
He made for the door, cannoning into Crutchley. Bunter profited by the confusion to fling the door to and set his back against it.
‘Wait a minute,’ said Bunter. ‘Better not touch anything.’
As if the words were a signal for which he had been waiting. Peter took up his cold pipe from the table, knocked it out on his palm and flung the crushed ashes upon the tray.
‘Perhaps,’ said Mr Goodacre, as one who hopes against hope, ‘he has only fainted.’ He rose eagerly. ‘We might be able to assist him—’
His voice trailed away.
‘Dead some days,’ said Bunter, ‘from the looks of him, sir.’ His eye was still on Peter.
‘Has he got the money on him?’ inquired MacBride. The vicar, unheeding, flung another question, like a wave, against the stone wall of Bunter’s impassivity:
‘But how did it happen, my man? Did he fall down the stairs in a fit?’
‘Cut his throat, more likely,’ said Mr MacBride.
Bunter, still looking at Peter, said with emphasis: ‘It isn’t suicide.’ Feeling the door thrust against his shoulder, he moved aside to admit Mrs Ruddle.
‘Oh, dear! oh, dear!’ cried Mrs Ruddle. Her eyes gleamed with a dismal triumph. ‘ ’Is pore ’ead’s bashed in something shocking!’
‘Bunter!’ said Wimsey, and spoke the word at last: ‘Are you trying to tell us that this is murder?’
Miss Twitterton slid from Harriet’s arms to the floor.
‘I couldn’t say, my lord; but it looks most unpleasantly like it.’
‘Get me a glass of water, please,’ said Harriet.
‘Yes, my lady. Mrs Ruddle! Glass of water – sharp!’
‘Very well,’ said Peter, mechanically pouring water into a goblet and giving it to the charwoman. ‘Leave everything as it is. Crutchley, you’d better go for the police.’
‘If,’ said Mrs Ruddle, ‘if it’s the perlice you’re wanting, there’s young Joe Sellon – that’s the constable, a-standing at my gate this very minnit a-yarning with my Albert. I seen ’im not five minutes agone, and if I knows anything o’ them boys when they gits talking—’
‘The water,’ said Harriet. Peter stalked over to Crutchley, carrying with him a stiff peg of neat spirits.
‘Take this and pull yourself together. Then run over to the cottage and get this chap Sellon or whatever his name is. Quick.’
‘Thank you, my lord.’ The young man jerked himself from his daze and swallowed the whisky at a gulp. ‘It’s a bit of a shock.’
He went out. Mr Puffett followed him.
‘I suppose,’ said Mr Puffett, nudging Bunter gently in the ribs, ‘you didn’t manage to get that beer up afore – eh? Oh, well – there’s worse happens in war.’
‘She’s better now, pore thing,’ said Mrs Ruddle. ‘Come on, don’t give way now, there’s a dear. What you want is a nice lay-down and a cupper tea. Shall I take ’er upstairs, me lady?’
‘Do,’ said Harriet. ‘I’ll come in a moment.’
She let them go and turned to Peter, who stood motionless, sta
ring down at the table. Oh, my God! she thought, startled by his face, he’s a middle-aged man – the half of life gone – he mustn’t—
‘Peter, my poor dear! And we came here for a quiet honeymoon!’
He turned at her touch and laughed ruefully.
‘Damn!’ he said. ‘And damn! Back to the old grind. Rigor mortis and who-saw-him-last, blood-prints, finger-prints, footprints, information received and it-is-my-dooty-to-warn-you. Quelle scie, mon dieu, quelle scie!’
A young man in a blue uniform put his head in at the door.
‘Now then,’ said Police-constable Sellon, ‘wot’s all this?’
7
LOTOS AND CACTUS
I know what is and what has been;
Not anything to me comes strange,
Who in so many years have seen
And lived through every kind of change.
I know when men are good or bad.
When well or ill, he slowly said;
When sad or glad, when sane or mad,
And when they sleep alive or dead. . . .
And while the black night nothing saw,
And till the cold morn came at last,
The old bed held the room in awe
With tales of its experience vast.
It thrilled the gloom; it told such tales
Of human sorrows and delights,
Of fever moans and infant wails,
Of births and deaths and bridal nights.
JAMES THOMSON: In the Room.
HARRIET left Miss Twitterton tucked up on the nuptial couch with a hot-water bottle and an aspirin and, passing softly into the next room, discovered her lord in the act of pulling his shirt over his head. She waited for his face to reappear and then said, ‘Hullo!’
‘Hullo! All serene?’
‘Yes. Better now. What’s happening downstairs?’
‘Sellon’s telephoned from the post-office and the Super’s coming over from Broxford with the police-surgeon. So I came up to put on a collar and tie.’
Of course, thought Harriet, secretly entertained. Someone has died in our house, so we put on a collar and tie. Nothing could be more obvious. How absurd men are! And how clever in devising protective armour for themselves! What kind of tie will it be? Black would surely be excessive. Dull purple or an unobtrusive spot? No. A regimental tie. Nothing could be more proper. Purely official and committing one to nothing. Completely silly and charming.